


waken to flowers

by lunaicFalaise



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bilbo-centric, Grief, Hobbits use a lot of flower language, M/M, Mourning, as always, gratuitous use of flower language, no explicit violence but definite mentions of the aftermath of battle, perceived character death, thorin is oblivious
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21575917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunaicFalaise/pseuds/lunaicFalaise
Summary: The sky was streaked with blood when Bilbo opened his eyes, and, for a brief moment, he thought the gore surrounding him had somehow stained the very atmosphere, cutting gashes in the pale blue heavens; perhaps the Valar themselves had bled out and left the children of Middle Earth to live and love and hurt and die alone, left them to scream their pleas for absolution to the abyss (the result would not be much different, Bilbo mused).this fic is a blatant excuse for me to gush about my feelings about flower language and Bagginshield. there are a lot of both.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	waken to flowers

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Lines to Accompany Flowers for Eve" by Carolyn Kizer. this is my first fic, please be nice  
> All flower meanings come from Cheralyn Darcey's "Flowerpaedia" and this webpage: http://www.daleharvey.com/Directory/articles-of-interest/LANGUAGE+OF+FLOWERS/Meaning+of+Flowers.html

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title is from "Colors Passing Through Us" by Marge Piercy  
> White Pine - peace, legacy, conflict resolution  
> (black) Mulberry - I will not survive you, sadness, protection, strength, release of emotions

The sky was streaked with blood when Bilbo opened his eyes, and, for a brief moment, he thought the gore surrounding him had somehow stained the very atmosphere, cutting gashes in the pale blue heavens; perhaps the Valar themselves had bled out and left the children of Middle Earth to live and love and hurt and die alone, left them to scream their pleas for absolution to the abyss (the result would not be much different, Bilbo mused).

Sitting up, he realized the bleeding sky was in fact merely a setting one, the sun eerily red and tinting everything a cold shade of crimson. He looked around at his blood-soaked surroundings (he found he couldn’t tell if the sun was being reflected off the ice or if the large red smear he saw was just more gore).

As he slowly regained his senses, he noticed that the back of his head was wet (most likely from being passed out in the snow) and a trickle of liquid ran down his neck, dampening the collar of his jacket. Looking across the frost-covered ground Bilbo could see patches of red coloring the snow. Rather morbidly, he thought to himself that the blood could not be old; it still kept its vivid hue.  
A shock went through his system, breath quickening and muscles tensing. If the blood was fresh, that meant the battle was too, and there might be stragglers wandering the hill, all too willing to cut down an enemy of Bilbo’s stature. He fingered the ring in his pocket, comforted by the knowledge he could disappear with ease, slipping into the shadowy realm of invisibility.

He then realized that the blood still appeared fresh because of the chill air preventing it from drying; leaving it in a sticky, half-congealed, half-frozen state. His heartbeat pounded in his head, a throbbing pain that emanated from the back of his skull. Somewhat distantly, Bilbo registered that the dripping on his neck was not melting snow as he had previously assumed (water wasn’t thick and it didn’t smell of copper).

He rubbed the back of his head, wincing when his fingers glanced along his throat. Tracing the trail of viscous liquid from his collar and up his neck, he felt the dull yet sweet pain of the ring of bruises that circled his windpipe. As he found the small cut that was the source of the bleeding, Bilbo realized his formerly-blue jacket now had a reddish-brown patch that spread down from his collar. Just a few months before, Bilbo would have been horrified to have a stain of any kind on his clothing, much less one as gruesome as this. It was with a peculiar sort of numbness that he found the thought of a bloodstain did not spark much of anything (after all, what was a bit of blood on a jacket compared to a town razed by dragonfire or a mountain full of gold and long-dead corpses). He had much more to be horrified of now.

Like a tide coming in, so slow he almost didn’t notice, Bilbo remembered how he had gotten to be laid out flat behind a boulder a few lengths from the plateau of ice capping Ravenhill. Freshest in his mind was Thorin; blood matting his hair, eyes steely, his back on the ice with the pale orc looming above (the last thing he’d heard before passing out was the screech of blades and a sick squelching sound).

Then Ravenhill had been swarming with orcs. Now it was empty and desolate, the only sign of battle a few scattered weapons and the occasional severed limb. Black blood mixed with red in the snow and Bilbo could not tell if there was more of one or the other. He thanked his lucky stars that he had managed to faint neatly beside a boulder, hidden in a thicket of undergrowth, discouraging any enemy from attacking what must have appeared to be a corpse in the bushes. Absentmindedly, Bilbo examined the leaves of the shrubbery that had saved him. Realizing they were mulberry, he huffed out a small sound, too close to a sob to be called a laugh. He pocketed a leaf, tucking it in his breast pocket next to his ring, as a reminder (of what, exactly, he was not yet sure).

He got to his feet and started towards the peak of the hill in an attempt to spot where the survivors had gathered. With an ache in his chest, he hoped the Company would still number thirteen.

As he walked in search of what remained after the battle, he noticed a particularly large splatter of blood on the bark of a white pine, and its needles floating in the puddle that had formed around the roots. He reached up and plucked a bundle of needles from a low-hanging branch, and, for the first time since stepping into the Lonely Mountain, Bilbo Baggins began to laugh. (He supposed the sentiment wasn’t entirely false, but usually blood and peace did not go hand in hand. He couldn’t say the same of legacy).


End file.
